


if the ocean existed somewhere just for us

by pastelsunset



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - After College/University, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Domestic Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Harry Styles/Original Male Character(s), Minor Zayn Malik/Liam Payne, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Smut, Strangers to Lovers, angel louis but like metaphorically, but louis nudges him and gives him a safe place to land, harry is in an abusive relationships (pre-louis), i mean harry is fully capable of saving himself, louis is good, louis saves harry from an abusive relationship is what i'm saying
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:42:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26624632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pastelsunset/pseuds/pastelsunset
Summary: I, too,have loved menwho named my mouthashtray,mistook me for a placeto leave burning thingswhen they were done.But I have also loved a manwho mistook me for an oceanand one day decidedof all oceans; you.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 8
Kudos: 23





	1. Come So Far

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: This story will depict and reference an emotional and physically abusive relationship. It also contains mentions to a suicide attempt and depicts rapidly deteriorating mental health. There may be additional warnings for certain chapters (which will be included in the preface notes), but this serves as a general disclaimer. Please do not read if you find any of these things triggering.
> 
> SUMMARY: First part of poem is from “What I Mean When I Say Survivor” by Brenna Twohy (from her book _Swallowtail_ ). Second part of poem by me.
> 
> What started out as a "regular" fiction story has now become fanfic. I couldn't figure out where to go and what better way to finagle a story than make it about two of the people I'm most obsessed with? This is my first AU so forgive me if it's chaotic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: This chapter serves as a prologue (though it takes place chronologically AFTER the rest of the story). The rest of the story is in Harry's point of view. Also, this is set in 2018/2019 but it’s a uni fic so Harry is 20/21 and Louis is 22/23
> 
> DISCLAIMER: This story is fiction (obviously). Never happened. Never will happen.

_Louis_

** December 2019**

_> if you're lost, i'll lead you back home <_

There’s a ticking time bomb hanging over their heads that will inevitably end in their complete destruction. But Harry murmurs Louis’ name into his ear, all long vowels and unbridled emotion, and it’s a siren call to his broken heart.

“Harry.” Louis’ voice is ragged, and it’s the first thing either of them have said since Harry fell through the door with whiskey on his breath, pitching into Louis chest first and mashing their lips together in a kiss that was more teeth and tongue than lips without so much as a greeting.

He must finally sense Louis’ confusion because Harry tips forward, lowers himself, takes Louis’ head in his hands to steady them both and slurs an explanation against his lips: “forgot my keys. Forgot how the buzzer works. Needed you to come get me.” He smiles drunkenly and takes Louis’ bottom lip between his teeth. “You always come get me.”

Harry’s palms are leaving fingerprints of burning ice on his face; his hands so cold it stings his skin—enflames it red—but Louis could drown in the lust spreading from his lips. Harry forces him against the wall, pressing all of himself against Louis. He can sense all of Harry’s desperation in the furious way he clings to his shoulders like a drowning man to a raft. Louis isn’t drunk, but his world swirls like he imagines Harry’s does: everything spinning out of focus until only the man in front of you remains clear.

Something deep inside Louis’ bones yearns to ignore everything boiling under this embrace, to follow Harry up the stairs into their bed and forget whatever caused his drunken fervor. But there’s an edge of hysteria in Harry’s movements that digs into his very being, much like the picture frame corner growing increasingly noticeable against Louis’ spine.

“Harry,” Louis repeats when his mouth is freed from his brazen lips.

With both palms open wide on his chest, Louis pushes Harry away with all the strength he can muster. He stumbles back, catching himself on the bannister of the stairs. His ministrations have not left Louis unaffected, though, and his lack of grace mirrors Harry’s as he wearily moves out of his compromising position. As Harry sways on his feet, the disturbed picture frame behind Louis swings precariously on its nail, scraping the wall in rhythm with his movements.

Harry looks up at Louis through thick lashes and heavy eyelids, hair sticking up in every direction. His cheeks are heated from more than just arousal and liquor, and it crosses Louis’ mind that he was in another fight.

Louis narrows his eyebrows, something that resembles fear welling up in his throat, but he forces it down. Putting two fingers under his chin and lifting, he inspects Harry’s face, who squeezes his eyes shut and bites his lip into a frown.

“I wasn’t fighting,” he promises into Louis’ palm. His own obstruction and Harry’s inebriation make the words come out muffled. His drool wets his skin, but Louis doesn’t move his hand; he is all too familiar with Harry’s drunken saliva staining his skin, his clothes, his soul.

“Your face is red.”

Harry’s eyes pop open, green like the algae that grows along the rocky shore of the ocean. They’ve taken on that far away intense look—irises flashing back and forth like he’s seeing things in the air that no one else can.

“’ve been crying,” he mumbles.

Louis drops his hand back to his side, gripping his joggers in his fist. “About?”

Harry sighs with such force it rustles the hair that’s fallen into his face, and the putrid smell of his breath reaches Louis’ nostrils. It smells worse than it tastes. But maybe Louis has grown accustomed to the taste of Harry’s lips kissing him only after they have kissed several bottles. He wants to cover Harry’s sigh with his mouth, swallow it—and his suffering—whole, and go back to the moments before the dam broke, but he cannot leave Harry swirling around the storm of his mind alone. Never again.

Harry’s head hits the bannister behind him with a hollow thump, his jaw working as he grinds his teeth, staring into the hall light above them. Its reflection makes his dark eyes take on the blue of the wallpaper around them.

“My husband,” Harry says, and the words echo in Louis’ head as loudly as Harry said them. They reverb between his ears until they drown out any other sound he could comprehend: _my husband, my husband, my husband_.

The residual anger is there before Louis can choke it down: hot and acidic on the back of his tongue. Back before Harry took a swan dive from the Charlestown Bridge into freezing water and Louis felt his heart cascade right along with him, Louis would have shut down, curled into himself, just at the mention of him.

“Harry,” he says instead.

“I’m sorry, Louis,” Harry whispers, but he’s still not looking at him.

Louis’ heart aches with Harry’s confession and the beat of it is loud in his ears as he steps toward him again, invading his space. Harry melts into him on reflex, forehead bumping his shoulder as he rests his weary head. Louis inhales his hair, the smell of whiskey and beer dampened by the earthy perfume of falling snow.

“I don’t want you to apologize,” Louis says into his hair. “You don’t have to apologize for how you feel.”

A protest is ready on Harry’s tongue, Louis can feel it bubbling up inside him just from the way his muscles tense, but he drowns it with his own words: “it doesn’t matter how it makes me feel. Right now, I’m just taking care of you.”

Harry emits a cry so loud it startles them both. His legs seem to suddenly give out: he buckles and falls until he’s a crumpled heap of wounded dignity and sizzling despair. Louis falls to his knees before him as Harry’s emotions flood out of him in the form of great choking, retching sobs resembling that of a half-strangled animal.

Louis reaches his hand around to Harry’s back, brushing against the base of his neck and pressing, encouraging him to curl into his warmth. He isn’t cold to the touch anymore, but Harry accepts the invitation, unfolding and leaning into him. Louis sweeps his palm down the length of his back in a comforting caress, but he feels every knob of Harry’s protruding spine and it sends ice into his veins. He shudders in Louis’ arms, aftershocks of hollow grief and drunken frustration.

“Harry,” he murmurs, voice soft and low, “come on, Harry. Up.”

He lifts his knees, granting Louis access to slip his other arm under his legs. He tightens his grip on Harry’s body and tugs him up into his arms, transferring his weight to brace against his thighs. He allows Louis to manhandle him up the stairs, floorboards creaking with age and use, until they’re at their bed inside the apartment. It doesn’t take as much effort as he thought it would: Harry is frail—the shell of the man Louis met last year. 

Louis lays him onto the mattress. Harry uncurls from his ball by lengthening his legs out and rolls to lie on his back. His hands are tucked into the sleeves of his hoodie and folded onto his stomach while he stares at the ceiling without life in his eyes. His body is so methodically posed that the fear that once gripped Louis of having to identify Harry in a morgue washes over him like a crashing wave; all at once.

_Louis is in the Charles River. Someone is screaming from the shore. Someone else is screaming from the bridge. Harry is not screaming. He’s floating face down in the middle of the Charles as snow falls onto his back and icy water bites at Louis’ skin. No matter how hard he swims, Harry seems always out of reach. Louis feels his muscles tire, his lungs freeze, but he cannot stop; he will not stop. Someone is calling Harry’s name. Louis thinks it is him, it must be himself, but he cannot feel his mouth move, all he can feel is water in his eyes and desperation in his bones. When Louis reaches him, he claws at Harry’s arm, will not let him slip from his grasp—though they are both frozen and wet—and Louis flips him over, so his mouth and nose face the sky. He cannot tell if Harry is breathing, but he pulls him to his chest and swim backwards towards the shore. He is blue, as blue as the ocean in summer, but where there should be green, there is none, because his eyes are not open, but Louis cannot stop. If he stops, they will both die, frozen in this embrace until they pry them apart to return Louis to his family and Harry to his husband._

“Louis.” Harry’s anguished plea pulls him from the river. He opens the eyes he didn’t know he closed and sees him before him: home, warm, safe. Harry is watching him, pain evident on his face, but there is concern there too.

“It’s okay,” Louis says, both to Harry and himself.

He pulls the thick blanket at the end of the bed out from under Harry’s feet and unfolds it, draping it over his body. Louis pulls off his pants and shirt while he makes his way to the other side of the bed; and crawls under the blanket next to Harry, folding himself tenderly around him. Harry rolls into him, curling below his chin, inhaling with such force Louis’ chest erupts in goosebumps. With the free hand not trapped under his body, Louis grips the soft flesh of Harry’s hip through the material of his jeans. The denim is cold and scratchy against his bare legs, and, when he moves, it tugs on Louis’ leg hair, but he needs to _feel_ Harry.

“I’m sorry,” Harry mumbles, still sounding as though his center of gravity has been disrupted.

“It’s okay,” Louis whispers again. He allows Harry to apologize this time because he knows he’ll keep saying it until Louis accepts it. 

He tucks Harry more securely under his chin, kissing the top of his head. Despite sharing a bed for half a year and seeing each other naked and vulnerable for even longer, this somehow feels more intimate than they’ve ever been. Harry nuzzles his face into Louis’ chest. He can feel the wetness of nearly-dried tears. Louis squeezes his eyes shut, forcing back his own tears threatening to spill out. Louis buries his nose into Harry’s hair and _breathes_.

>><<

_> follow me when it's dark out <_

When Louis wakes up, Harry’s abandoned clothes fill the cold space where his body was. The weight of last night crashes against him like a familiar storm, and he sits up, searching the room wildly as if Harry would appear at the mere sense of his distress. But the light of the bathroom across the hall is illuminated under the door and it calms Louis’ racing heart. He throws off the covers, braving the chill morning air on his pale skin.

“Harry?” He raps on the door with two knuckles as if afraid the door will splinter.

There’s an answering splash before a soft, “come in.”

Harry is sunk in the bathtub, water to his chin. The mirror isn’t foggy and the usual humidity from a hot bath has dissipated: he either bathed in lukewarm water or he’s been sitting in it for quite some time.

“How long have you been in here?” Louis sits at the edge of the tub. 

The water is almost clear, cloudy from only residual soap, and he can see every detail of Harry’s skin. His scars are red and angry, distinct against the pale body and water. Even the light tawny hairs covering his body have become dark. There are yellowing old bruises, some from drunken clumsiness, others more intentionally placed.

“Dunno.” He slides down farther into the water’s embrace, but the tub is small and Harry’s form long. His knees float above the water as if disembodied and every time a motion disturbs the water, small waves form against his skin.

Louis reaches in and pulls out his right hand to examine the fingertips: wrinkled and waterlogged. He shifts his gaze to Harry’s face as he caresses his hand, but he isn’t watching him, he’s watching the water as it laps at the edge of the tub, so full it’s threatening to spill out onto the floor.

Rather than drop his hand, abandoned, back into the water, Louis pulls. He tugs Harry upright without resistance, and he stands, dripping, as Louis yanks the plug from the drain. He watches Harry watch the water swirl and disappear, careless of his nudity, body shaking from shivering cold and blazing despair.

Harry accepts his outstretched hand and steps outside the tub onto the bathroom rug. Louis gives him one towel to wrap himself up with and use another to pat his bottom half dry with gentle efficiency. He wraps the fluffy cotton around Harry’s head, drying his hair as best he can, before discarding the towel onto the floor.

Louis guides Harry back to the foot of their bed and he allows Louis to manipulate his body into articles of clothing. He leans on Louis for support as he dresses him. The clothes swallow his thin form and hang off him like ill-fitting sheets.

“Have you eaten?”

Not to his surprise, Harry shakes his head, wet hair flopping against his forehead.

“Do you want to?”

Harry shakes his head again. “But I will,” he says. 

Taking his hand, Louis leads them both into the kitchen. Harry overtakes him, hand slipping from his grasp, and pads into the living room, tucking himself into the corner of their worn couch. The only sound in the room is the rattling of the old heater in need of repair and the hand-me-down coffee maker whistling its protest. Louis would almost prefer the agonizing sounds of Harry’s cries to his numb silence.

When Louis joins him on the couch with a slice of banana bread and the smell of brewing coffee in the air, Harry tips to his other side so he’s leaning his weight into Louis. His hair is damp and cold against Louis’ neck and it brings goosebumps to the surface of his skin, but he can’t bring himself to care as he watches Harry take calculated bites.

Harry finishes his bread in silence, crumpling his hands into a tight fist in resolution. He pulls the sleeves of the shirt—that Louis absently recognizes as his own—in around his hands and tucks them under his nose, breathing deeply.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks.

“ _It_ , yes,” Harry says into his sleeves, “ _him_ , no.”

“Can we talk about _it_ without _him_?” Louis tries to keep his voice soft, undemanding, and without any trace of anger, even though it swirls up his throat. But it’s easy for him to swallow his rage as Harry sits pliant and trusting beside him. Harry has seen far too much of it—anger and rage—and, in vulnerable moments like these, Louis feels responsible, if only for not coming into his life sooner.

Harry doesn’t respond, instead pressing himself closer to Louis.

“I love you,” Harry says after a moment, still speaking into his shirt. Then, lifting his lips from the muffling fabric: “you know that, right?”

“Of course, I know that,” he responds too quickly, unable to evaporate the hint of desperation in his voice. “I love you too.”

“Okay,” Harry says, voice quiet, and Louis suddenly realizes Harry doesn’t believe him.

“Harry,” he pleads. Louis turns, allowing Harry to adjust his weight towards the back of the couch so they can face each other. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” Harry assures, and this time it is Louis who doesn’t believe him.

“Please, talk to me.” The anguish is back in his voice, but, this time, Louis doesn’t care, because the calm before the storm is flashing before his eyes and suddenly, he is diving into the Charles again, hoping the onlooker behind him has dialed 9-1-1 and the impact of Harry’s body hitting the icy water hasn’t already cleaved him in two.

“Nothing,” Harry promises again. “Nothing really _happened._ ” He chews on his nails, tearing at the cuticles, a habit he’s been trying—and failing—to break. “I just…”

Louis pulls Harry’s hand from his face and intertwines their fingers. Harry’s warm saliva makes a home against their skin, and Louis replaces it with his own as he kisses Harry’s fingertips.

“My brain gets weird this time of year” is Harry’s explanation. His grip on Louis’ fingers tightens, and he pulls their joined hands into his lap with such force, it tugs Louis’ body closer to him.

“During the holidays he was always nicer,” he says into the back of Louis’ palm. Harry’s lips brush his skin with an enticing warmth, but his words send viscous waves of anger into Louis’ stomach. “He wasn’t… _him_.”

The waver in Harry’s voice reminds Louis he’s not mad at him, but at the man who made him this way. Louis slides closer to his body, wrapping Harry as best he can in a grasp that includes both his arms and his legs.

“I _know_ you’re not him, and I _know_ you’re not going to turn as soon as the world thaws, but, God, there are days that I _miss_ him.”

Harry is trembling in his arms and Louis plants a kiss on his temple rigid with tension, before pressing his forehead into the warm skin there. He can feel Harry’s pulse throbbing.

“How… _fucked_ is that? I _miss_ him.”

There are tears falling from Harry’s eyes. Louis can feel them as they land on his arm wrapped around the latter’s body.

“I hated him— _hate_ him—every day. After everything, after the things I’m still remembering _now_. . . And sometimes I _miss_ him.”

Louis doesn’t understand. There’s no way that he could, no matter how vulnerable Harry could be with him, because Louis has never stood where he stands. But he’s stood on the precipice of life and death with him: watched _Harry’s_ life flash before _Louis’_ eyes as he fell into the water, and Louis will never forgive what drove him to it, but he will love him with the same ferocity of the frozen current that threatened to wash them away.

“When I was alone, it made _sense_ , I understood. Still shameful and horrid, but the routine of _having_ someone, having _him,_ was gone, and I understood missing it _then_.” Harry is getting louder now, breath hot against Louis’ skin. “But now I have _you,_ I’m in love with _you_ , and all of that, all of him, is so far in the past that I shouldn’t be having these feelings, but I _am_ , and it’s all so _fucked_.”

Harry goes limp in his arms, sagging his full weight into Louis so suddenly, they both almost topple over. But Louis catches him.

“It’s okay,” Louis says, but his weak voice gives away his pity and sadness. He feels Harry tense, and Louis squeezes him in response, continuing with conviction. “It’s okay. _You’re_ okay. There’s no map for how this is supposed to go; it’s uncharted territory. Sometimes life’s not a calm stream, it’s an ocean with currents and waves and storms… and we’re just… taking it all one row of the boat at a time.”

There’s a sniffle from where Harry is tucked under his chin, and Louis feels him shaking again. He presses a kiss into the drying locks of Harry’s hair, hoping just the simple touch will express all the love at once Louis feels for the man in his arms.

Harry looks up at him, face red and eyes shining so wetly that Louis can see his own reflection in his pupils. His lips are stretched into a small, bittersweet smile. He rotates in Louis’ arms, throwing one knee over his lap to straddle him, sitting back against his knees so the softest part of Harry’s ass is all but out of his grasp.

Harry winds his fingers into Louis’ hair as he brings his own hands up to cradle Harry’s head. Harry leans forward, pressing his forehead against Louis’, and they’re so close together that he can both hear Harry’s heartbeat—loud, steady, and sure—and feel it throbbing in the pulse point of his throat under his thumb.

Louis tips Harry’s head down to bring their lips together. At the mere gentle touch of Harry’s lips against his, Louis’ soul shatters apart and reforms around him. 

>><<

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song of the Chapter: "Lighthouse" by Hearts & Colors
> 
> NOTE: Again, this chapter serves as a prologue. The next chapter is over a year in the past and from Harry's point of view.
> 
> This is my second fic, but my first AU, so please bear with me as I struggle. Comments, edits, suggestions appreciated but not required. Thank you for reading! Please leave kudos & comments and share if you liked it :) All my love, xx


	2. Where We Thought We Would Be Safe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: This story is fiction (obviously). Never happened. Never will happen.
> 
> NOTE: The dates in this story aren't entirely relevant. It’s just to make it easier to tell when it’s in Louis’ POV in the future and Harry’s in the past. (& once again, for clarity, Harry is 20, Louis 22)

**_Harry_ **

**September 2018**

_> can we build on this ground that's been broken now? <_

He stands outside of his own home like being blind at the edge of a cliff. One step forward is all it would take to plummet; to abandon sturdy ground for air or water or hard, pointed rocks—Harry doesn’t know what is waiting for him on the other side of the door. Behind him the birds are chirping, the sun warms his back, the sidewalk is familiar territory: safe. But beyond him, in front of him, is a void of possibility; not all good, not all bad.

The yellow door makes his decision for him, though, it seems. It swings open without Harry’s push, revealing Wesley with a flourish of sunshine and what smells like spaghetti carbonara coming from the kitchen.

“What are you doing standing out here?” Wes asks. The inside of their house seems dark behind him, contrasting to the evening sunlight Harry and their yard are bathed in, so Wes appears to be in a spotlight of his own making. He’s wearing his “KISS THE COOK” apron (the one Harry gave him last Christmas; the one with the dark wine stain in the corner that’s covering up a few drops of Harry’s blood), and his dark hair is slicked back the way he always wears it to work, the way he looked when Harry met him for the first time.

“Just sitting in the sunshine a little longer,” Harry lies, a stupid forced smile stretching over his face.

Whether his husband recognizes the façade for what it is or not, Wes chuckles and opens the door wider so that Harry can step inside. “We can open the front window blinds, if you like. Eat in the living room and sit in the sun. Dinner will be ready in a few minutes.”

Harry doesn’t answer, will let the other make the decision so he doesn’t say something wrong. He steps past Wes and drops his shoulder bag in the basket in their entryway. He ignores the way Wesley’s hand gripping his shoulder in greeting causes fear to shudder from his stomach in waves.

Wes closes the door and locks it, securing them both inside. “Got a notification of a presence on the RING app while I was cooking,” he says, “thought maybe you forgot your key.”

But they both know Harry would never do that. Not after doing it once earlier this year, having to call him in the middle of a lecture rather than contact their landlord and be charged a lockout fee. Wesley had to take the train 30 minutes back home just to let Harry inside and Harry had to wear long-sleeves in the middle of summer until the bruises faded.

“Nope,” Harry manages lightheartedly. He stretches up on his toes to give Wes a kiss on the cheek. “Just some vitamin D before the rain.”

Wesley’s face prickles into a smile at Harry’s affection, returning it with a kiss to his lips. “How was class?”

“Fine.” Harry turns towards the living room, considering for a moment turning up the blinds himself, before deciding to ask: “can I open the curtains?”

“Of course,” Wes replies, walking into the kitchen cheerfully, “I said we could, didn’t I?”

“Yes.”

“Just turn the thermostat up so we don’t waste energy.”

Harry does that first, walking to the electronic appliance on the wall and turning the set temperature up the customary four degrees. He digs his fingernails into his palms, hoping to remember to turn it back down before they go to bed tonight.

Wesley is back to stirring sauce in the pot on the stove when Harry raises the bay window’s blinds. The warmth from the sun hits his skin again and he closes his eyes, basking in it. He wants to open the window, let the fresh air inside, and his fingers twitch at the idea, but he keeps them balled into fists at his side.

“How was your first official day?”

Harry hums into the sunlight before allowing his eyes to open slowly, looking through the tree leaves out front into the sky. It’s light blue, fading to pink and orange as the sunset imminently approaches. “Fine,” he says again.

He doesn’t say that it _was_ his first day, official or otherwise. He had skipped orientation. He went to campus early today to pick up everything he missed, like his ID card and student handbook. He and Wes had agreed that attending orientation with hundreds of students two years younger than him that wouldn’t understand why he was a freshman not living on campus would just make him anxious. And that was true. But, really, Harry didn’t want to make friends. And Wesley didn’t want Harry to make friends.

“How does it compare to your last one?”

“Pales in comparison,” Harry says automatically, the response already on his tongue before Wes got the entire question out.

Two years ago, nearly to the day, Wesley and Harry met at a different freshmen orientation. Harry was fresh out of secondary school, newly 18, and abandoning the small-town Cheshire lifestyle for university in Boston. He’d lived all his life in the same tory homophobic place that was essentially the Bible Belt in Europe; full of old people and old tradition. He felt free in Boston, taking on a publishing degree. Wesley was the brand-new Canadian professor, teaching his first class (intro-level history) after publishing a textbook, seven years Harry’s senior, fluent in French and Italian, sure of himself, and infinitely sexy. He was the professor assigned to Harry’s group of freshmen orientees and Harry was smitten from the first moment he laid eyes on him. Then, he was enrolled in Wesley’s course. After a few weeks of exchanging heated glances in class and secret discussions after, Wes had given Harry his number, and he learned that his affections were reciprocated. After more weeks of what Harry considered harmless flirtation that would never go anywhere, Wes had kissed him after hours when he appeared in his office after his day was done, as he usually did, but this time found Wes still on campus. And things spiraled from there.

By the end of the semester, Harry had been to Wesley’s house and made out with him in the kitchen, on his couch, and in his bed, but nothing that Harry considered bordering on inappropriate; they were both adults, after all, and he was _giddy_ with the risqué of it all. This man, this accomplished professor, who could have anyone he wanted, wanted _him—Harry_. He was in love, he was young, he felt doted on, and he was blind. But it finally became clear that things were out of control when, on the Friday before finals week, Wesley bent Harry over the desk in his office and fucked him.

Wes took him home that night, Harry’s ass so sore he could barely sit on the train—convinced everyone around him knew he had just lost his virginity to his professor. Harry slept in Wesley’s bed, sending a careless text to his roommate that he was staying at a guy’s house, which wasn’t entirely a lie, and the next morning he woke up in cold sheets to a cold house.

“We can’t keep doing this,” Wes had said in his kitchen when Harry padded in wearing one of his T-shirts naming a band he didn’t recognize. _This_ meaning fucking, staying over, kissing, or talking, Harry wasn’t sure, but he was sure the rest meant it was over and his world shattered.

Harry thought he was going to cry. “What do you mean?”

Wes leaned on his counters, had put his nose between his fingers and pressed like if he did it hard enough, the hickeys on Harry’s neck and the pain between his legs would disappear like they never happened. “This isn’t right.” _This_ meaning _them_.

“It feels right,” Harry said stupidly. He had whined like a child.

Harry told him he loved him then. Wesley hadn’t said it back. Harry was sure he loved Wes, wasn’t entirely sure Wes loved him, but was sure that neither wanted it— _this_ —to end. So, he bargained; he asked what he could do. He stood in Wesley’s kitchen tracing the spaces between the tiled floor with his toe and begged for it not to end. He’d have gotten on his knees if Wes had asked. But Wes told him that he could get fired, that Harry could get expelled, that both of them could be ruined. And someone should have said that none of this should have happened in the first place, someone should have said it was all a mistake and to put it behind them, and someone should have walked away, but it certainly wasn’t going to be Harry and Wes didn’t do it either.

So, Harry withdrew. He’s never been sure why. It wasn’t something they decided in Wesley’s kitchen that morning, it wasn’t even something either of them brought up. Harry took his last final, Wesley’s final, and promptly went to registrar and withdrew. On the paper that asks why, Harry scrawled “not the right fit” and it was true. He didn’t even tell his mother before telling Wes. After the paperwork was done, he took the train to Wesley’s house, knocked on the door he’d stumbled into so many times already attached to Wesley’s lips, and told him what he’d done.

For a moment, as soon as it was out of his mouth, he was terrified. He was terrified he’d made the wrong decision—that all of it truly was an illusion and Harry was just a boy Wesley had fucked because he could. But that didn’t happen. Wes had crushed Harry to his chest in a fierce hug, telling him he was happy and that they could give it— _this; them_ —a proper shot. Wes told him he loved him then. And Harry told him he loved him again.

They made love that night, Wes pressing him into the mattress like he was made of porcelain; all gentle and breakable and slow, completely unlike their first time in his office, rough and hurried and desperate. Wesley adored Harry: his kisses bruised his skin, passion wracked his bones, and his love imprinted into Harry’s skin. It was heaven. Harry would’ve left a thousand things behind if it meant Wesley cherishing him like that.

And he did.

Harry’s mom disowned him. When he came clean about withdrawing from college (which he was forced to do when a letter came in the mail to her house), he had to tell her he moved in with someone; a boyfriend. She had already disliked his homosexual tendencies. She disliked them even more when she learned how much older Wesley was. She came to their house in the middle of January, with snow falling and already hardening on the cement, and one look at Wes cradling a sobbing Harry in his arms was enough for her to decide he was dead to her. She had asked him to choose: _Wesley or Mom?_ And he had chosen Wesley; he would always choose Wesley.

They got married that summer when Harry brought up going back to college. He’d always an executive position in a publishing house and getting a job in publishing is so much easier with a degree—his career was the reason he came to America in the first place. Wesley said he didn’t need to get a job, that he would provide for them with his university professor salary and Harry could be his house husband. It had been a joke, but Harry didn’t think it was funny. He wanted his life to mean more than Wesley, despite it already appearing that way. The discussion had been that if he applied, even to a different school, he’d have to say he withdrew from his previous institution, and he’d have to say why, and it could eventually come back to Wesley. But Harry was adamant, and Wesley was frightening so they got married to change Harry’s last name and to provide a secure reason for their association with one another.

But Harry didn’t go to back to university that year. He stayed in his comfortable life with Wesley, living the façade of a normal boy, a normal marriage, a normal life. He did play the role of house husband: cooking and cleaning and doting on Wesley and he enjoyed it. Until, one day, Harry looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize himself. He wasn’t sure what had changed, it certainly wasn’t just the ring on his finger that was different, but the way he carried himself had changed. He was so dependent on Wes and he _hated_ it; he hated _himself_. So, he opened his computer and rather flippantly applied to the University of Massachusetts. It was enough to satisfy him. He didn’t even think he would get in. But he did.

His acceptance letter came in the mail a month and a half later, in the middle of February, after more than a year of being alone in the world with Wesley and seven months of marriage to him. Wes had opened the letter. It was in the mailbox waiting for him and he had gotten home before Harry. And Wesley was waiting for Harry when he got home, groceries in hand and an oblivious smile on his face that fell when he saw Wes seething.

“What is this?”

Harry hadn’t even known. Wes waved the letter in front of him like an accusation, but Harry didn’t know what it was, couldn’t see.

“You applied to UMass?”

The confusion and sorrow caught up to Harry all at once. “I… yes? ... I didn’t…”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Harry thought that was the only reason Wes had been mad. It wasn’t.

“I didn’t…”

“We didn’t discuss this. You didn’t ask me.”

Harry was taken aback. “I didn’t think I had to… we—we talked, last year, we—”

“ _Of course_ you should’ve asked,” Wesley roared like Harry was stupid. “This changes _everything_.”

“I didn’t think I’d get in,” Harry said. He felt small; he _was_ small. Underneath Wesley’s towering form, physical and metaphoric, he felt like a child; powerless, worthless.

“Well, you did,” Wesley spat. He threw the letter and it had fluttered before Harry’s feet like a sacrificial lamb. “ _Somehow_ , you did.” Harry flinched at that. He had always felt underscored by Wesley’s superior intellect. He was published, he had a bachelor’s and a master’s, on his way to his doctorate, and he was a professor. Harry was just… _Harry_.

Harry had gotten angry then, started screaming about wanting to feel important in something— _to_ someone other than Wesley. Wesley didn’t understand why— _wasn’t he enough_? They fought well into the night, groceries abandoned to melt on the floor, until Wesley screamed and gripped Harry’s arms so tight they bruised and shook him so hard his head slammed against the brick wall and it gave him a concussion. They made up after returning from the Emergency Room, Wesley telling Harry he could go to college if it would make him happy and Harry said it would. So, Wes sucked him off to keep him awake that night and promised never to fight again.

It wasn’t their last fight and it certainly wasn’t their first, but it was the first time the cracks of Harry’s fantasy life started to shatter. A part of Wesley Harry hadn’t seen before (or, at the very least, hadn’t entirely noticed) was shining through; Wes was ashamed of him or controlling him or _something_. It dawned on him for the first time that this fantasy version of a life he had built with Wesley was built on just that: a _fantasy_ —none of this was real. Harry started to doubt Wesley, to doubt himself. That letter was all it took.

And the fantasy chipped away every day after that: piece by piece, blow by blow, until blood dribbled down Harry’s chin and stained Wesley’s apron in the shape of his own fingerprints and Harry realized that this man he loved could kill him one day but he had nowhere else to go.

>><<

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song of the Chapter: "Silence" by Carlos Guevara
> 
> {someone please let me know if i need to put content warnings at the beginning of chapters. i'll try to do them myself before i post if i consider it fairly graphic but uh,,,,,, ~nothing~ triggers me anymore,,,,,,, i'm too desensitized and already consistently in self-destruct mode. so just lmk if you need them.
> 
> Thank you for reading! Please leave kudos & comments and share if you liked it :) All my love, xx


	3. Easy Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: This story is fiction (obviously). Never happened. Never will happen.

**Harry**

> _waiting on some beautiful boy_ <

The wedding band on Harry’s ring finger burns in a way it didn’t yesterday. It’s searing its meaning and permanence into his skin like a brand. He shoves his hands in his pockets, expecting the left one to erupt in flames or, at the very least, smolder into smoke.

He considers concealing the evidence of his marriage in his pocket; abandoning it to rest there until he twists it back onto his finger while on the train ride home. But it would just be one more thing boiling under his skin, threatening to spill over whenever Harry ends up at his lowest and the waves inside his brain crash against his skull until it’s unbearable and words come tumbling out in order to relieve the pressure behind his eyes. And living like that at home is bad enough, and he started school again to feel more like himself and less like an imposter in his own body. So, he leaves the jewelry in its place, allowing it to instead burn a hole into his skin.

But if his new co-worker notices the ring, he doesn’t mention it, blazing past the opportunity for Harry to bring it up in their casual introductions.

“Essentially, ‘s just checking in and out shit, taking students to find their books, and fucking with the printer.” Niall is painfully Irish, loud and bubbly in all the ways you wouldn’t expect a library front desk worker to be. But Harry finds him oddly charming, endearing even. He smiles with his whole face—eyes shining and wrinkled, grin big and toothy—and, despite only knowing him for a couple of hours, Harry thinks that if anyone were to personify the sun, it’d be Niall.

“Sounds easy enough,” Harry replies.

“’t is,” Niall agrees. They’ve finished their informal onboarding tour, Niall now resting behind the front desk on a comfortable office chair with his feet propped up beside his laptop. “If I’m honest, I spend most of the time doing homework.”

Harry’s standing awkwardly, fiddling with the strap on his satchel, watching Niall as he absently plays on his phone and swivels the chair back and forth.

“We don’t have anything to do, you can sit down,” he offers, “I mean it when I say this job isn’t formal, Oliver doesn’t give a fuck.”

Harry obliges, as if he needed permission, bending his knees and folding himself onto the floor, leaning his back against the wall.

“Shit, man, I can get you a chair, you don’t need to sit on the fucking floor.”

“I don’t mind.” Harry laughs. He’s already so comfortable around Niall. There’s something friendly and inviting about the way he carries himself. “I’m gay, so sitting in odd positions is kind of like second nature.” The words come out of his mouth before he can stop them, before he can suck them back into his lungs. He somehow forgot that he can’t just _say_ things.

But Niall just looks at him, eyebrow cocked, small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “My roommate says the same fucking thing.”

In the back of his mind, Harry is struck by an intrusive thought: he couldn’t count on both hands the sheer amount of curse words Niall has spouted. _Unprofessional_ , Wesley would say, _childish; naïve_.

“You said you’re originally from Cheshire?” Niall blazes past Harry’s declaration like it’s just some irrelevant thing he said about himself; as inconsequential as saying he’s right-handed or learning to play piano. Harry finds it oddly comforting. “What made you decide to come to UMass?”

“It’s a long story,” Harry mutters.

Perhaps a normal person would press for more, but Niall shrugs as if that’s good enough for him. “What hall do you live in?”

“Oh,” Harry’s mind scrambles. “I don’t live on campus.”

“Oh?” Niall’s brows furrow. “I thought you said you’re a freshman?”

“I am! I’m. . . I’m 20, though. Non-traditional.”

But this time, that explanation isn’t enough; Niall’s still looking at him sideways. “Where do you live then?”

“Erm.” Harry bites his lip. “Revere, actually?”

Niall’s eyes nearly bug out of his head. “ _Revere_? That far? Jesus, why?”

The familiar uneasy, sickening dread settles into Harry’s stomach like a fog falling over the ocean’s shore. Whatever hope he had about keeping that part of his life out of his time at university, even though it was slim to begin with, dissipates. He was foolish to think it could be possible, living two different lives, but the dream was nice while it lasted.

“I, uh. . . I live up there with my husband.”

The word lingers in the air like it’s palpable; like it’s tied to a string and still attached to Harry’s tongue, floating above their heads.

“You’re _married_?” The surprise is plain on Niall’s face.

“Erm, yeah.”

“But. . . you’re so young!”

“Yeah.” _Yeah._

Niall’s still looking at him as if instead of revealing his relationship status, he’s actually admitted to him he’s got four nipples; the word _husband_ still tangible above them like it’s in a thought bubble on a comic strip. But, suddenly, he shakes his head like he’s clearing the dust out of his ears.

“Jesus, I’m sorry Harry, that was fucking rude of me,” Niall says. His voice is loud, but his tone is warm and sincere. “I didn’t mean to presume. . .” He trails off. He’s not sure what to say. No one ever is. “I’m sorry,” he says again.

“It’s okay.” Harry feels small. Not the small he feels when Wesley is angry at him or dominating him in intellect, but a different sort of small where he just feels naked and vulnerable; laid bare for Niall to read him like one of the books on the shelves surrounding them.

As Harry curls into himself, fixating on the patch of bare skin showing through the hole in his jeans, a student comes up to the desk. He can feel Niall watching him carefully, as if he’s still figuring Harry out, before turning and chatting with the student.

Though Niall’s speaking at a volume Harry would have no trouble eavesdropping on, his blood is rushing in his ears and his thoughts are suffocating in his head and he doesn’t hear anything beyond what’s thrumming in his body. He’s tempted to flee, to make up some sort of excuse and dig his transit card out of his backpack so he can race home, but he’s struck by the sudden thought that he’d rather jump in front of a speeding train. Wesley would be home.

But Harry doesn’t get the chance to examine his own thoughts, his own reaction to everything laid before him, because Niall is turning to him again, tipping his head down to look at where Harry is still crumpled into a ball on the floor.

“I have to go upstairs and beat the shit out of the printer and hope that does the trick, will you be okay down here?” Niall raises an eyebrow, perhaps laughing to himself at the double meaning—as if Harry would stay on the floor after he left.

“Yeah,” Harry says, but he can’t help the way it comes out all choked with repressed emotions.

“If someone needs help finding a book, just type it into the database like Oliver showed you, it’s pretty straight forward.”

“Okay.” Harry stands as Niall maneuvers around the desk to join the student on the other side.

“Oh!” Niall turns back to the desk, leaning over the mahogany tabletop to grasp his phone as Harry takes his place in the office chair. “My roommate might be here soon; I forgot my fucking CharlieCard at home like a dumbass, so he’s picking me up. If he gets here and I’m not back, just tell him to wait. And before you ask: yes, he’s left me stranded before.”

Harry opens his mouth, either to say he wasn’t going to ask or to actually ask for more information, he doesn’t know which, but it doesn’t matter because he doesn’t get the chance. All he’s gotten out is “Niall. . .” before—

“He’s about. . .” Niall holds his hand up flat and perpendicular to the top of his head like he’s measuring how tall he is. “Yea-big. Scruffy, broody fellow; covered in tattoos, probably wearing black; looks like he could beat the shit out of you, but really has a heart of gold. Can’t miss him.”

Harry opens his mouth again, this time to ask for the bloke’s name and retort that next to nothing Niall described was remotely helpful, but he’s already turning around and bounding up the stairs with the helpless student scrambling after him.

As it turns out, Niall’s description is right: Harry can’t miss him.

He wanders in a few minutes after Niall disappears, looking only a little lost, glancing over his other shoulder when he sees Harry peering at him from behind the desk instead of a blonde Irishman. He’s got a dark baseball tee on, a band’s name written across it in big block letters with an oversized denim jacket over it, despite the fall warmth outside. He is indeed scruffy, grungy; looks like he should be in a rock band. His auburn hair is swooped to the side but purposefully tousled. It’s supposed to look like he’s just rolled out of bed like that, but Harry knows a styled head when he sees one.

When the tough-looking-but-heart-of-gold friend-of-Niall considers he’s looked rather thoroughly for his roommate, he finally approaches the desk. Harry watches him as he walks, unfazed by Harry’s close examination of him. He’s got denim jeans on to match Harry’s, dark and distressed, but his are cuffed over his Vans to accommodate short legs. Offhandedly, Harry thinks Niall was perhaps too generous with his height estimate.

Niall’s roommate clears his throat, forcing Harry’s attention away from staring at his shirt—he can finally read that he’s repping _The Who_. Harry looks up into his eyes, and a strange emotion that he can’t quite place settles in his stomach and at the back of his tongue when their gazes meet. His eyes are warm, welcoming, exudes the friendliness that encompasses Niall’s entire being, but radiates only from his eyes, as a contradiction to his outfit and the way he carries himself. Harry is immediately taken by their color: blue like the ocean frozen over.

The newcomer clears his throat again, likely because Harry doesn’t say anything, but all he can do is blink.

“I’m, erm, I’m looking for—”

“Niall?” Harry blurts. He says it too quickly, before his brain can catch up with his mouth, and it sounds like he’s nearly shouted it; voice loud and sudden in the surrounding quiet of the library. It’s pitched an octave higher than usual, too, and Harry wants to curl into himself and hide forever.

“Erm, yep,” he responds, slowly. “That’s the one.”

Harry’s face heats. He isn’t sure why he’s rendered completely brainless by this man, this man that he’d have to look down at if he stood up to his full height, but the raspy northern English melody of his voice sends an unfamiliar bolt of electricity from Harry’s ears down his spine.

“He’s upstairs,” Harry manages. He knows his face is beet red, feels like he’s a teenager again, just discovering his sexuality at the hands of the cute footie player next door. But this isn’t the boy-next-door situation; Harry isn’t a teenager anymore; isn’t even single—he’s _married_ for Christ’s sake. Harry is married, an adult in a regular social situation, and yet he still feels like if he remains under this man’s calculating gaze any longer, he’s going to melt into a puddle on the floor.

“Are you—?” There’s concern laced in his voice that makes Harry want to die—he’s so obviously distressed that this stranger is _concerned_ for him—but before he can get out the question, Niall does what he does best: interrupts.

“Tommo!” Niall shouts as he’s bounding down the stairs. There’s an answering aggressive _shh_ from somewhere in the reading area beside them.

Harry and Niall’s roommate turn to face him just as he slams into the desk like he’s the first to cross the finish line tape at the Boston Marathon.

“Christ,” his roommate ( _Tommo?_ ) scolds, voice transformed from the tentative one he spoke to Harry with, replaced with something playful. “You’d think after working here for two years you’d know how to keep it down.”

“Never.” Niall grins devilishly.

Harry’s blush hasn’t died down, his face still feeling uncomfortably hot, and he just stares at Niall, willing this conversation to be over so Harry can contemplate withdrawing from university for the second time.

But—in what Harry has already quickly learned is Niall’s fashion—Niall blazes past his discomfort. “I see you’ve already met Harry! He’s from Cheshire.”

Harry can feel his eyes on him before he turns his head, offering a fleeting sheepish smile that’s there and then gone.

“Interesting,” he says, “’m from Yorkshire—Doncaster—meself. What’s brought you to—?”

Again, Niall interrupts his friend’s question. “Don’t ask him, he won’t tell you.”

“O—kay . . .” Even Niall’s friend looks sideways at him. Harry is growing increasingly agoraphobic; considers that his house haunted with bad memories and fear hidden in every shadowy corner is still more appealing than feeling like everyone’s staring at him.

“This is Louis, by the way,” Niall says, finally, _finally_ giving Harry his name.

“Louis,” Harry breathes, and he doesn’t even realize he’s said it; doesn’t realize the way it flows so easily off his tongue. Niall and his—Louis—stare at him. So, he tacks on: “like the king.”

Louis raises an eyebrow. “Suppose so.”

There’s a moment of pause, where Harry is just staring into Louis’ blue eyes and Louis is staring right back, but Niall doesn’t let it linger, clapping his hands to break the silence as he walks around behind the desk.

“Alright, Tommo, I’m fucking starved, so let’s go.”

Just like that, the heated moment is broken, Louis tearing his gaze away from Harry’s to roll his eyes and watch Niall crudely shove his laptop into his backpack. “So _now_ you’re in a hurry? But when I was texting you five minutes ago you couldn’t be bothered to check your phone?”

“I was at work!”

“You’re still _technically_ at work,” Louis retorts.

It’s hard for Harry to fight the smile tugging at his lips at their interaction. It’s so painfully friendly and domestic, like they’ve been friends for years and don’t care if everyone around them knows it. There’s a twinge of pain behind Harry’s smile though, a feeling of yearning that doesn’t go away as the pair continue to bicker about something inconsequential like what constitutes “ _at work_.” But as soon as Harry is wondering what the feeling is, he places it: the scene is so foreign and unfamiliar he feels like a voyeur, peeking in on something he’s not supposed to see. It hits him square in the chest all at once like he’s been punched; the air knocked out of him.

“Harry?”

His name tugs Harry out of his own head.

“Hm?”

“Was just asking your plans for lunch,” Niall says, “because Louis, here, is being a real shithead so I might just eat with you.”

“Hey,” Louis protests, “I didn’t drive all the way here for you to ghost me.”

“Oh,” Harry says. Though his episode of feeling like a stranger in his own body is over, a different feeling settles over him as it dawns on him: he left his lunch at home. “Uh, I’m going home.”

Niall pretends to pout. “Really?”

“Yeah, I, erm, I don’t have a meal plan. . . and—and I don’t have any cash,” Harry stutters. It’s not entirely true. His debit card is in the wallet in his satchel, but if he spent money after making a lunch, Wesley would scold him like a child for being irresponsible. “So, I’ll just run there and come back for class.”

“To _Revere_?” Niall questions like Harry’s offended him.

“You live in Revere?” Louis asks.

“Yeah,” Harry says softly. He feels small again. “It’s not too long on the train,” he mumbles.

“It’s like an hour one way!” Niall says. “When’s your class?”

“Two.” _It’s 11:43_.

“You wouldn’t even make it!”

“I can just—” Harry protests.

“Come eat at our place.” This time it’s Louis that interrupts him. Even Niall looks taken aback, raising his eyebrow at his friend. Louis looks like he can’t believe he said it himself, so he adds quickly, like a second thought: “if you want. We’ve got plenty of food if. . .” He trails off. Harry is oddly satisfied that he’s the one that’s flustered. “We don’t live far.” Louis shrugs. “Just an option.”

But, again, Niall doesn’t let the moment linger in the air like it seems it wants to, excitedly asking: “yeah, Harry! Up for it?”

And Louis is looking at him, a little pink to his cheeks, his eyes bashful under his wispy eyelashes, and Harry thinks that the smart thing to do would be to run: run far away from Louis, from the Healey Library, far from Boston entirely, but his mouth is speaking without consulting his brain again because one second he’s trying to find a reasonable excuse in his head and the next second, he hears himself say _“yes.”_

_> burning down the highway skyline <_

Louis drives a shitty green 1970’s two-door Range Rover with one taillight burnt out, but Harry finds comfort in the worn leather seats and the way he has to bend his knees awkwardly to fit in the back.

“Sorry,” Louis apologizes sheepishly as he watches Harry maneuver to get comfortable. “She’s not used to accommodating giants.”

“’m not giant,” Harry mumbles, despite how hard his shins are pressed against the back of the passenger seat pointing to the contrary. Louis raises an eyebrow as if to ask “ _really?”_ and Harry has to bite back saying that his husband is taller than him. It doesn’t matter.

Niall argues with Louis that he shouldn’t have to pull his seat forward just because Louis is adamant on Harry and his “ _too(two?)-long legs_ ” joining them for lunch, seeming to forget he was just as eager a few minutes ago. But Louis leans over, reaches between Niall’s legs to the contraption below, and yanks the seat forward himself so Harry’s legs can breathe. He can’t even mutter out a grateful “ _thank you_ ” before the sound is drowned out by the activated stereo blurting out a rock song and Louis is pulling out of the parking lot, tires squealing.

The two in front seem to forget Harry is there, bickering over the radio as Louis complains about shitty Boston drivers and Niall points out that its lunch hour. Harry is comfortably invisible, though, watching the city sweep by in a blur.

“Is Ziam home?” Harry hears Niall ask as Louis flips another driver off with a muttered “ _wanker._ ”

“Think so,” Louis replies. “Were when I left.”

Turning the volume down, Niall becomes finally aware of Harry’s lingering presence in the back. He turns to face him, leaning so that the seat belt across his chest digs into his neck.

“You’ll like Ziam,” he informs him.

“Introducing him to the whole crew, are we?” Louis retorts.

That just sets the two of them off again, Niall demanding “ _this is how you make_ friends _, Tommo, ever heard of them?_ ” And Louis goes into some story about how this is why Niall can’t get laid: “ _you go too hard too fast_ _with_ everyone” and that makes Niall laugh like a prepubescent boy. They forget Harry is in the back again, but this time, as he watches the two of them interact, he doesn’t feel like a voyeur; he feels, somehow, _right_.

 _Ziam_ , it turns out, is two different people, not one person with an eccentric name like Harry had initially thought. The boys’ old house isn’t as modern and updated as Wesley’s but has character and charm, and looks warm and inviting just like those that live in it. Louis and Niall are still bickering as they lead Harry inside, greeted by two other blokes standing in the kitchen. One is sat on the island, all tan skin, slicked back hair, and dark piercing eyes, and the other is stood between his legs, his hips locked in by the latter’s knees and ankles around his ass.

“Who’s this?” the dark-haired one on the island asks, eyes narrowing at Harry as he pulls himself closer to the one between his legs, arms draping over the other’s shoulders.

“This is Harry!” Niall answers, pausing in the middle of his conversation with Louis, “he works with me at Healey.”

“What’d we say about bringing home strays, Ni?” the one standing at the island jokes, gently removing the limbs from his body, the dark-haired bloke pouting, rejected. This man is taller, bigger than the rest, but still just as soft and warm. His brown eyes twinkle as he smiles and Harry softens, but still feels the eyes of the other piercing into his. Then, to Harry, Brown-Eyes asks: “he didn’t, like, kidnap you, did he?”

“Hey!” Niall protests. “He came willingly!”

“I invited him for lunch,” Louis adds, “he lives in Revere.”

“ _You_ invited him, Lou?” Brown-Eyes looks sideways at Louis.

“Yeah!” Niall confirms, still pouting.

“You live in Revere?” Dark-Hair says. He pushes himself off of the island, bare feet slapping against the tile as he lands. “How’d you end up there?”

“He won’t tell you,” Louis says, echoing Niall’s words from earlier.

“He lives there with his husband!” Niall says at the same time.

Again, the word lingers in the air above them, palpable. Next to Harry, Louis turns to look at him; Harry can see him, looking so painfully bewildered, out of the corner of his eye.

“You’re _married_?”

Harry turns his gaze to him, cheeks heated. “Yeah.” He doesn’t think he hides the shame in his voice, but Louis’ face doesn’t change; it’s still all soft, confused stare and warm, quirked up lips.

“Yeah,” Niall echoes, voice suddenly in feigned protectiveness, pointing an accusatory finger at Louis. “So, _paws off_ , Tomlinson.”

That tears Louis’ gaze from Harry’s, his own cheeks turning pink as he glares at Niall. “Shut up, Niall.”

A smile tugs at the corner of Harry’s lips. Even under bewildered and inquisitive gazes, he somehow feels more comfortable here with these four strangers than he has in a long time.

Liam and Zayn— _Ziam_ —he learns, over reheated leftover pizza, have been dating for several years. Zayn is a photographer with an extensive Instagram following, Liam a model with the same online presence, and they met back in England on a shoot. They then moved at eighteen to New York City, where they picked up Louis as a low-level marketing assistant at some branding party. Zayn got a job photographing the Red Sox, so they moved here, Louis following several months after when Zayn got him a job managing social media for the baseball team. Apparently, last year, Louis met (underage) Niall at a bar just outside Fenway Park after a game, so drunk off his ass Louis had to help him home. “ _The rest is history_ ,” Niall declared, the remaining three pretending to curse under their breath but with smiles still plastered to their faces.

“How’d you end up in Boston?” Liam asks, innocent brown eyes wide and curious. Even Zayn has grown comfortable with him already, his form slumping into Liam’s side, but eyes also trained happily on Harry, expecting an answer.

Harry’s bite of pizza—now cold—freezes in front of his mouth. He audibly swallows what remains in his mouth, fidgeting under four careful gazes. “I uh, was really into the history of publishing in school, so getting a degree at Emerson was my top choice.”

“’s a good school,” Zayn says absently.

“How do you work at Healey, then?” Niall asks, confused.

“Erm, I go to UMass,” Harry says sheepishly. “Now. Emerson. . . didn’t work out.” He tears at the crust of his pizza. “’s just what brought me to Boston.”

Louis’ calculated eyes are on him, Harry can feel it, and, though he says nothing, Harry can feel the apprehension radiating off of him.

“You study publishing, then?” Niall asks.

“Yeah.”

“How long have you been married?” Liam asks.

“Erm… a little over a year?” Harry’s slice of pizza has been reduced to crumbs and it feels like a metaphor for how lost he feels in this big, old house amongst people his own age he can’t help but like.

“You got married at _nineteen_?” Niall asks.

“Yeah.” Harry’s resolve is just another crumb now.

“How did you meet?” It’s Louis that asks this, having gone silent, listening, up until this point. Harry’s head jerks to meet his gaze; sees his eyebrows are narrowed; blue eyes seem guarded. He must sense the weight in the air, that there’s something Harry isn’t saying.

For some reason, Harry feels suddenly defensive. He reacts to Louis’ apprehension with hostility, stubbornly not allowing him to make Harry feel bad about himself. He isn’t sure where it comes from, why Harry has the need to protect his relationship with Wesley from this _stranger_. “At Emerson,” he says. And it’s true.

Louis’ eyes narrow further, doubt flashing in his blue depths. But, if a thought comes to him, he doesn’t say it, opting instead to turn his attention back to his plate.

“What’s his name?” Niall asks, oblivious.

“Wes,” Harry replies, still looking at Louis, watching the way he glowers into his lap. “Wesley.”

“What does he do? Or is he a student too?”

“He’s a teacher,” Harry says. And, again, it’s true—just not the whole truth.

But the group doesn’t question it, smiling and uttering a few satisfied _that’s cool_ s and turning back to each other once more and conversing amongst themselves. It’s Harry’s turn to frown into his food, his appetite vanished, and he swallows around the growing lump in his throat.

“I, uh,” Harry’s voice doesn’t sound like his own. He clears his throat. “I need to be getting back.”

Niall looks over at him with wide blue eyes. “I thought your class wasn’t until 2.”

“It’s not,” Harry grimaces. “I have some writing I want to do before.”

Niall frowns at him, glancing at his friends, before seeming reluctant to reply: “Oh, okay.”

Harry stands, the satchel he never removed from his person swinging against his hips. “Do you want me to wash my plate, or—?”

“Just put it on the counter,” Zayn says, smiling, “we got it, thank you, though.”

“Thanks for having me, I really appreciate it.”

“Anytime!” Niall shouts with a mouthful of pizza.

“Seriously,” Liam adds, quietly, sincerely. “You’re always welcome.”

“Your teacher husband, too,” Zayn says with a wink.

Harry stretches his lips into an awkward smile, knows it looks forced. He finds himself looking to Louis, curious about what’s revealed on his face, but he isn’t looking at him, instead swirling his pizza crust into a dollop of marinara.

He only lingers for a moment more, watching Louis for his reaction—isn’t even entirely sure why he’s looking for one—but when nothing comes, Harry turns on his heel to return his dishes to the kitchen.

There’s mumbling from the living room, hissed urgent whispers that Harry can’t make out as he pushes his discarded pizza into the trash and placing the plate and cup in the sink already halfway full. His fingers itch to clean them himself, his ears ringing with Wesley’s typical admonishments when Harry forgets to do the housework on time.

When he turns to leave, Louis is waiting for him in the kitchen doorway, having come up so silently behind him that Harry’s hand flies to cover his mouth and stifle an embarrassing shriek of surprise.

“Christ,” he mumbles into his hand, “you scared me.”

“Sorry,” Louis says, sheepish. He raises a hand to tousle the hair at the back of his head. “Do you, er, want a ride back to campus?”

Harry narrows his brows, a little bewildered. For some reason this whole scenario is bizarre. “I’m okay.”

“I’m heading that way anyway, got a meeting at the State House at 2pm myself. It’d be nice to be early for a change.”

Harry’s brows remain furrowed. There’s still a strange tension in the air. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, Harry, ‘m sure.” Louis sighs, but it isn’t exasperated like Harry’s used to hearing when he’s too apprehensive. “Wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t.”

And this time, Harry has time to think, but he doesn’t need to; the way Louis is looking at him with genuine, hopeful blue eyes feeling more familiar than any pair he’s gazed into has made the decision for him.

“Okay.”

_> sit there in your heartache <_

The first several minutes of their drive is in silence, Louis opting to leave the radio off during this journey, and Harry’s fingers tear at loose threads on his rucksack, desperate for something to do but unsure of what to say. It was easier, being trapped in this liminal space, when Niall was with them for a content buffer: always talking but about nothing in particular and everything all at once.

“Do you like the Red Sox?” Harry blurts out at the same time Louis says:

“Niall wants me to invite you to his birthday party this weekend.”

Louis raises a brow, an amused smile quirking his lips. “What?”

“What?” Harry asks at the same time.

Louis laughs and it’s so contagious and warm and light that Harry joins.

“Of course I like the Red Sox I work for the bloody team.”

“Yeah,” Harry smiles, the tension in his veins dissolving like a tab of Alka-Seltzer in water. “But did you, you know, _before?_ ”

Louis shrugged. “Couldn’t be bothered to care, before. Didn’t pay attention to _any_ American sports, to be honest.”

“So…” Harry pretends to consider something. “If you didn’t have the job you wouldn’t like the Red Sox.”

“I’d be indifferent.”

“But you wouldn’t be a fan if you didn’t have the job.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “Sure, Harry, suppose so.”

Harry grins, considering it a win. He isn’t sure why this has come so naturally to him, why this tentative back-and-forth with Louis already feels familiar, why there’s a foreign warmth spreading from the top of his head all the way down to the tips of his toes.

“So. . .” It is Louis’ turn to fill the silence. “Niall’s party?”

“What?”

“This weekend,” Louis says, explaining it slowly; choppy—like he expects Harry to catch on immediately. “It’s his birthday. We’re having a house party. He wants you to come.”

The smile Harry wasn’t even trying to bite back fades in an instant, a strange feeling of guilt careening into his stomach. “Oh. I don’t… I don’t know.”

“Don’t feel obligated by any means,” Louis assures him.

“I don’t feel—”

“We’ve got plenty of people coming,” he continues. “Niall’s probably invited the whole bloody city, he just wanted me to ask. He likes you.” And he must see the way Harry’s frowning, glowering into his upturned palms, so he tacks on: “for some reason.”

And it works, because the ends of Harry’s lips quirk up once again. “Hey!” he mumbles in feigned hurt.

“You should come,” Louis says, softly, like he’s afraid Harry will jump out the car if he convinces him too hard in one direction or the other.

“I have to ask. . .” The words die in this throat, unaware he’s saying them until they’re already out, permeating the already thick air in the car. Harry’s mouth gapes like a fish, open and closing around nothing as he forces his voice to stop making sound.

Louis frowns, turning to glance at him quickly before focusing on the road again. “Is he. . .?” He starts, but he doesn’t seem sure of what he’s asking, his own question trailing off.

“If we have plans,” Harry rushes out, trying to save himself, “I have to see if he’s got anything planned for us this weekend, see if I can—if I’ll have time.” He’s over-explaining, rushing out some sort of excuse that doesn’t sound like _“I have to ask my husband for permission.”_

“Okay.” Louis sounds unconvinced, his eyebrows twitching, but he doesn’t say anything more.

He finally reaches across the console to toggle on the radio, a soft rock song filtering through the speakers to fill the silence as Harry slides further into his seat, the seat belt digging into the most sensitive part of his throat next to his Adam’s apple.

And now Harry knows he has to go—he has to prove that he isn’t some housewife chained to his controlling husband, that he isn’t some stupid boy that fell in love too young to know that it wasn’t love but lust and stability and recklessness, has to convince an entire group of friends that he doesn’t look in the mirror every morning and despise what he has become.

> > < <

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song of the Chapter: "When You Were Young" (Cover) by A Silent Film (original by The Killers)
> 
> Thank you for reading! Please leave kudos & comments and share if you liked it :) All my love, xx


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